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CHAPTER EIGHT / ACT ONE
The Fine Art of Kidnapping
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Stefan and Angelina perched on Elena's bed, a tense hush enveloping the room as Elena rummaged for a towel to tend to Angelina's chest wound.
An hour had trickled by since they left the woods, a heavy silence weighing down their shoulders. Angelina couldn't shake the guilt gnawing at her. She'd shattered Damon's trust, maybe even their friendship. The memory of his pained expression, clutching her heart, haunted her thoughts relentlessly.
Stefan's voice pierced the quiet, his concern cutting through the tension. "You alright? You're quieter than usual."
"I'll-" She stammered, trying to find the right words. "I'll be alright."
"Damon was right," He began. "This is my fault."
"Why would this be your fault?" She furrowed her eyebrows, glancing over in his direction. "Damon pretty much hates me, and for good reason. This isn't your fault Stefan."
"He wouldn't have reacted the way he did if I didn't betray him in 1864." He responded. "Yes, he would've been mad, but he wouldn't have tried to kill you."
"Stefan," Angelina sighed deeply. "Let's not play the blame game. We just- we just need to worry about his plans to open the tomb. He has the grimoire now, and we have to get it back."
"You're right," He nodded his head in agreement.
"And um- thank you. Y'know, for saving me." She thanked him and titled her dead down at the floor. "Kinda surprised you didn't leave me for dead."
"Well, let's just say I consider you as a friend now."
Angelina managed a weak smile, her heart heavy with unspoken emotions. Even with Stefan and Elena together, she couldn't shake her feelings for him. Being just his friend was bittersweet solace.
